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  RAKEHELL’S WIDOW

  Sandra Heath

  Chapter 1

  Alabeth drew back the crimson velvet draperies to watch the approach of her father’s heavy traveling carriage. Its lamps cast a pale light over the mauve rhododendrons lining the drive and an unseasonal rumble of thunder wandered darkly over the April night sky, followed by a flash of lightning which shone sharply on the coach’s polished brasswork and gleaming panels. Why had he decided to pay Charterleigh a visit after all this time? And why make the journey from London to the coast of Kent after a long and tiring day in the House of Lords debating the new peace with France? She knew he hated traveling by night because of the danger of highwaymen, and yet he chose this late hour to visit her. Perplexed, she watched the carriage, its harness jingling and its wheels crunching on the freshly raked gravel. It swung in an arc around the stone fountain before the main entrance of the rambling Tudor house, and then it passed from her sight.

  She was thoughtful as she remained by the window. It had been six years now since she had scandalized polite society by jilting the elderly and influential Duke of Treguard at the altar and eloping instead with Robert, Lord Manvers, master of Charterleigh and one of the most notorious rakehells in England. Society had abhorred her actions, finding no mitigating circumstances in the fact that she had been only seventeen and had never wished the arranged match with the Duke in the first place. She had friends who had remained loyal to her, but she had made a great many enemies, many of whom would never forgive her for breaking so many rules. Her father had forgiven her to a certain extent, once he had got over the shame and embarrassment, but he had never once set his seal of approval on her unwelcome marriage by visiting Charterleigh. She had always been welcome at Wallborough Castle, the family seat in Derbyshire, provided she visited alone, but no single member of her family had ever called upon her. Now she had been a widow for two years, and still those same rules applied—until tonight. Why?

  Another vivid flash of lightning pierced the night sky, reflecting clearly in her large green eyes. Hers was a breathtaking beauty, the sort of beauty which even a man like Lord Manvers, who had vowed never to encumber himself with a wife, had been unable to resist. Her hair was dark red, twisted back into a Grecian knot at the back of her head and teased into dainty curls around her face. Her sprigged muslin gown, white picked out with primrose, was a fashionable echo of ancient Greece, with its high waistline and elegant train, reminiscent of the classical lines so much admired now. Slowly she lowered the draperies and turned to leave the tapestry-hung room, her cashmere shawl dragging on the polished wooden floor behind her as she went to greet her father. The sound of his footman’s cane rapping smartly on the ancient door echoed dully through the house.

  The Earl waited in the great hall, a stone-flagged chamber with dark paneled walls and a number of suits of armor which always seemed to Alabeth to still contain their long-dead owners. The candles on the walls cast a poor light, but the Earl was standing by the immense stone fireplace where the butler had placed a small oil lamp. Geoffrey Albert Carstairs, eleventh Earl of Wallborough, was a portly man, once considered very good-looking but now rather too round to be called handsome. He did not much care for modern fashions, choosing to still powder his hair and wear colorful coats and buckled shoes, and his face bore a habitually mournful expression that concealed the gruff humor which was the mark of his many speeches in the House.

  Her skirts rustled as she approached. “Good evening, Father.”

  “Beth.”

  “May I offer you some cognac?” She spoke lightly, but she was nervous as she went to the heavily carved Elizabethan sideboard.

  He nodded. “It’s good to see you in something other than black for a change.”

  “My two years of mourning ended in January.”

  “Two years? Most women settle for one.”

  “I am not most women.”

  “By God, that’s an irrefutable fact, madam, for how many other women would be so foolish as to ally themselves to a wastrel who then set out deliberately provoking a duel in which he was almost certain to die? Eh? Damn me if I don’t think he deserved to snuff it, and that’s another irrefutable fact.”

  “Father, I would prefer not to quarrel with you, but quarrel we will if you persist in speaking ill of Robert in his own house.”

  “I don’t wish to quarrel with you, my dear, but I can’t help regretting your past connections with all my heart.”

  “I loved him, with all my heart,” she retorted. “And besides, the duel was not of his choosing. It was brought about by the interference and evil influence of Sir Piers Castleton.”

  The Earl’s shrewd eyes moved thoughtfully over her face. “Castleton was his second, not his opponent, Beth.”

  “He was still entirely to blame.”

  “Well, I admit that Castleton isn’t one of my favorite fellows, but I still can’t truthfully say that I agree entirely with you. Robert was his own man and nobody’s cat’s-paw.” The Earl accepted the glass of cognac she held out for him. He swirled the amber liquid and sniffed the bouquet. “Some of Robert’s contraband stock?” he asked with a smile.

  “Smuggling wasn’t one of his vices.”

  “Then he must have been the only gentleman in this part of the country to be so innocent.”

  “Not everyone in Kent is a smuggler, sir.”

  “Perhaps not quite, but a more notorious lair of contre-bandiers would be hard to find. I’ll warrant the new peace treaty hasn’t been all that well received here, for now there’ll be more time for the revenue cutters to do their appointed task.”

  She smiled. “You may be right.”

  “What is your opinion of the peace?”

  “Well, the thought of continuing with a war which has already lasted eight years isn’t cheering, but for all that, I think this particular treaty is a bad thing.”

  “Ah, so you’re a daughter of mine after all,” he said with some satisfaction. “I wondered if perhaps marrying a Whig had blinkered you as well.”

  “Robert may have been a Whig, sir, but he was not a Jacobin. He loathed the revolution as much as you.”

  “Perhaps he had a redeeming feature after all, then,” remarked the Earl smoothly, swirling the cognac again and sniffing it appreciatively. “One thing the French can do well is produce an excellent swig— Now, then, where was I? Oh, yes, this shameful peace. I swear, Beth, that if you’d been in Town when the news first broke, you’d have thought them all gone completely mad, for there seemed as many revolutionaries in Piccadilly as in every Paris boulevard put together. There was no stopping to consider the wicked terms of this treaty, no pause to wonder why England is giving back everything to France, but the French relinquish nothing in return. No, there was no thought of that, there was just the mob, parading through the streets, demanding that every house be illuminated in celebration—and woe betide those who did not hasten to comply! First Consul Bonaparte was their Messiah, and Ambassador Otto’s house in Portman Square was become a shrine. I’ll warrant the King wondered how long it would be before Madame Guillotine sprang up in Hyde Park.”

  She smiled as she watched him, for his whole manner smacked of the House of Lords, from the way his head was held back so that his clear, precise voice could carry, to the way he surveyed the invisible ranks of peers somewhere to the rear of Charterleigh’s great hall. With a smile, she went to sit on a high-backed settle. “You have had a long day in the House, haven’t you?” she said.

  “I have, indeed, trying to point out the dangers of this iniquitous Treaty of Amiens. Bonaparte is laughing at us, he’s successfully swept us to the sidelines, leaving him free to continue annexing Europe to his ever-growing empire. He sees himself as the new Cha
rlemagne, you mark my words! Which brings me to my reason for coming here tonight, Beth.”

  She blinked. “You’ve come here because Bonaparte aspires to be Holy Roman Emperor? How on earth can that involve me?”

  He chuckled. “I admit that the link must appear somewhat tenuous.”

  “It’s not even that, sir, it’s completely invisible!”

  “It is because of the peace treaty that I’ve accepted the appointment in Madras, assisting the Governor-General, the Earl of Mornington.”

  Now she was completely mystified. “But you’ve always sworn never to take a post abroad—”

  “I’ve sworn many a thing in my time, Beth, including never to set foot in this house, but here I am.”

  “Why have you accepted this post? And what’s more to the point, why have you come here?”

  “I go to Madras because there are those in the government who, like me, can see Bonaparte for what he is. The terms of the treaty dictate that Britain shall hand back French territories, including those in India—once my province, you will remember.”

  “I remember.”

  “It is widely felt that Bonaparte has no intention of meeting any of the terms which are supposed to bind him, and so it has been decided—most secretly, you understand—that there shall be some diplomatic delaying on the side of the British.”

  “Some fudging, you mean, and who better to do it than you, one of the most expert fudgers in Parliament.”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

  “I thought I was praising you,” she replied blandly, “for is it not the ambition of every politician to be a notable fudger?

  “Hmm. Well, call it what you will, I prefer to call it diplomacy. My skills in the field will be of undoubted assistance to Mornington in his dealings with the French, and I feel it most important that at such a delicate point in our country’s history, I should do my utmost to be of assistance.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I still fail to see what this has to do with me.”

  “I was coming to that.” He looked away from her.

  She was immediately suspicious, for his inability to meet another’s gaze was his weak point as a politician—and as a card-player. His eyes always wavered when he knew he was on thin ground, and she knew him well enough by now to see that he was in just such a predicament now. “Yes?” she said. “Do go on.”

  “Beth, this was to have been your sister’s first Season—”

  She stiffened. “No!”

  “Please, Beth.”

  “No! Jillian has made her feelings toward me more than clear, Father, so asking me to oversee her first Season would be an unmitigated disaster.”

  “I was hoping that you and she might have made up since that business with Captain Francis.”

  “I have been quite amenable and agreeable; Jillian has not.”

  “But you were always so close—”

  “We no longer are, sir. She still believes I snitched to you about her indiscretions because I was jealous and spiteful. She will not believe that I did it because I was concerned for her, knowing Francis to be a blackguard—I had her best interests at heart, but she is determined not to believe it.”

  “She’ll come around, Beth.”

  “She won’t, for she believed herself in love with him. Father, it must be obvious to you that I’m not the person to ask. Couldn’t Aunt Silchester attend to it?”

  “Aunt Silchester was to have done the honors, but she is now too ill to take on the responsibility. There’s only you, Beth. You’re Jillian’s elder sister and you’re a widow, you’re entirely suitable to have charge—”

  “You seem to be conveniently forgetting my notorious past, sir. There was a time you believed me to have behaved so shamelessly that you almost disinherited me.”

  “But I didn’t disinherit you, did I? And besides, you’ve been an entirely respectable widow for two years how. Beth, it is important to me that Jillian be brought out this year, and I need you to do this for me if I am to go to Madras in two days’ time without this weight on my shoulders. Please do it, please take charge of your sister’s first Season.”

  Chapter 2

  Slowly Alabeth got to her feet. “It isn’t fair of you to ask me such a thing in such a way, for you place me in an impossible position.”

  “I have to, for it is imperative that I reach Madras as swiftly as possible. Bonaparte isn’t about to sit on his hands while I make my plans in a leisurely way, is he?”

  “It may be imperative for you to go to Madras, but it certainly isn’t imperative for Jillian to be brought out this year. Why can she not wait until your return?”

  “Because I’ve given her my word.” Again his eyes slid away in that uneasy way.

  “She’s old enough to understand that you have to break your word.”

  “But I don’t want to break my word,” he cried. “I want her to be launched this year. Just think, Beth, it’s the first Season after eight years of war, and society is determined to make it the most dazzling summer possible.”

  She held her ground, determined not to give in to the pleading in his eyes. “If I have charge of Jillian, she cannot be guaranteed a dazzling Season, and you know it, Father. To begin with I am still persona non grata at Almack’s, and a young lady like Jillian would need to be seen there.”

  “The Duchess of Seaham is prepared to escort your sister to Almack’s, for there is no need for you to be caused embarrassment at the hands of those patroness vixens—”

  She was aghast. “You’ve been talking to Octavia about all this?”

  “Of course I have, she’s your closest friend still, isn’t she? Damn it, Beth, I’m desperate to get this all sorted out, and Octavia is always guaranteed to be a fount of wisdom.”

  Alabeth thought of her friend the Duchess who, although fifteen years her senior, was most certainly her dearest and most trusted friend. Octavia was cheerful, amusing, and the brightest of London’s hostesses. Seaham House rivaled Melbourne House, Devonshire House, and even Carlton House, and invitations there were much sought after by the ton. The only blot on the Seaham escutcheon was the noble Duke himself, for he was as dull-witted as his wife was sharp. He had long since deserted the marriage bed in pursuit of a succession of Cyprians, whose intelligence in no way matched the Duchess’s and who were only too pleased to be able to boast of having conquered a Duke. Octavia had accepted the situation, finding her spouse decidedly uninspiring anyway, and having discovered that there were many other gentlemen, more charming and witty, with whom she could enjoy liaisons. Yes, Octavia had undoubtedly sinned a great deal more than Alabeth had ever done, but she was accepted at Almack’s and Alabeth was not, having committed the unforgivable sin of being at the center of a cause célèbre, having flouted convention, and having stepped on the sensitive toes of the Treguard family, whose tentacles reached throughout society, even in the Royal Family itself.

  The Earl cleared his throat. “Octavia said I was to do my utmost to persuade you to take Jillian on. She said that you’d be the best person to do it and that anyway you’d enjoy Town again if only you’d give it a chance.”

  “Octavia has never stopped trying to persuade me.”

  “She’s right.”

  “I’m not ready to take society on again yet, Father.”

  “Nonsense, you’re wilting away out here in rural seclusion. What you need is the diversion of London’s drawing rooms.”

  “I’m perfectly happy here, and am determined to remain here, dazzling Season or no dazzling Season.”

  He searched in his pockets then and drew out some papers and cards. “Look at all these, Beth, and see then if you feel so strongly. You may have offended the Treguards in the past, but it’s over now, especially as Robert is no longer with us. There is even an invitation to Carlton House, surely proof enough that you are welcome back into the fold.”

  Reluctantly she took them. Without exception they were invitations to events of the highest class, inc
luding, as he said, a fete at Carlton House, where the Prince of Wales’ guests of honor would be luminaries from the French world of art, this being the Prince’s contribution to the new peace. She set the gold-edged card aside and looked at the next, an invitation to a grand regatta at Ranelagh Gardens, to be followed by a feast in the Rotunda and a magnificent firework display. The other cards announced masquerades, routs, assemblies, dinner parties, supper parties, boating parties, and even breakfast parties. There were to be numerous balls—including, of course, Octavia Seaham’s famous annual ball on the King’s birthday—and there was a special dispensation for ladies to visit the British Museum. There was the private viewing at the Royal Academy, Ascot week, the opera season— The list was endless, and as exciting to her as her father knew it would be, for he was right when he said she needed the diversions of London, for she was born to revel in a high society life.

  The Earl saw indecision creep into her eyes, and he pressed home his advantage. “You’d have the full use of the house in Berkeley Square, and ample funds to cover any eventuality—including the most lavish of balls for Jillian.”

  She hesitated on the brink of agreement, and then drew back. “No, I cannot do it.”

  “But why? Is it because you fear encountering Castleton?”

  “Sir Piers Castleton has not entered my thoughts,” she replied stiffly.

  “It is immaterial, anyway, for the fellow is about to take himself off to Europe, touring all those places which have been closed to us because of the war.”

  “I don’t refuse because of him.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Because I know that Jillian will not come around to it, she simply will not consent to be put in my charge.”

  “Ah, but I believe she will, for there is a very enticing lure.”

  “What lure?”

  “A certain Polish aristocrat by the name of Count Adam Zaleski.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, come now, surely you’re heard of him—the darling of the First Consul, the matchless poet of the pianoforte. Surely a newspaper reaches this outlandish spot from time to time?”